


Again and Again and Again, ad nauseam

by Yatzuaka



Series: 90s Movie Marathon [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Time Loop, Violence, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzuaka/pseuds/Yatzuaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Groundhogs Day is a weird movie. </p><p>I love it, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Again and Again and Again, ad nauseam

**Author's Note:**

> Post Ultron -ish. Spoilers for sure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha reliving the same shit day over and over.

The day after yesterday, today, I woke up to Kelis.

My milkshake does indeed bring boys to the yard, and they are certainly better than most, but... I am not sure if that's the song I want to wake up to for all eternity, but thems the shakes.

The milkshakes.

I woke up yesterday and it was over. We had totally saved the world. Gotta admit, the sense of achievement and righteousness sort of loses its shine the third or fourth time. I mean, sticking a computer program displaying AI characteristics into a fake, theoretically indestructible or infinitely renewable body, should have ended badly.

It certainly ended badly the first time, but somehow, something in JARVIS was right for the body, so right that he effortlessly lifted Thor's ~~penis extension~~ hammer when he gave it a shot.

I'd never even tried.

Too much red in my ledger for any kind of worthiness.

I woke up yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, to today.

It's not a particularly good day, despite the party Tony had, will, does insist on. It's not a good day at all. Because before it's all over Bruce makes a choice. And it's not me. It's not been me any of the times I've done this, it's never going to be me, and it's starting to get to me.

I wasn't hurt that he left the first time, and I wasn't surprised the second time, and the third time I was numb.

Am I wrong that the cruelty of this situation seems exacerbated by the early morning hip-hop? 6am on the dot, sun still lingering under the horizon, and despite the situation, so improbable, so unlikely, I still push myself out of my bed, push the off button on my hated alarm clock calmly and get dressed in my workout gear.

Whatever psychosis I'm experiencing is no reason to allow my body, or my reflexes or maybe my habits, the good ones, to fall by the wayside.

I run until I taste blood in the back of my throat. I run until my limbs are held up by force of will alone, until I am thoroughly sweaty and disgusting. I have gone through the same steps five or six or eighteen times, not including today, and isn't the saying that doing the same thing over and over is the definition of insanity?

Ignoring the summons from Tony, from Steve, from Pepper, (not from Bruce, and it doesn't hurt- it doesn't) I shower, water so hot my skin tingles painfully, and dress in my generic Don't-Notice-Me gear. My hoodie is comfortably worn in, the tank top washed too many times to be black anymore. My jeans are artfully distressed and allow for more movement than the standard pair of jeggings. SHIELD had been good for the occasional piece of equipment or apparel.

The familiar door shuts, the familiar hallway falls away behind me, and I should take the elevator, because my limbs feel creaky with over-use, but I find myself lurching down the steps faster and faster, control of my movements basically left in the care of gravity, who'd never been my friend.

Daylight is a balm when I finally exit the Tower - my whole body relaxes as I pull my hood up, and get lost in the crowd.

A voice I've worked hard to forget reminds me that looking for trouble will most likely make it appear. The wrong kind, though. The kind I shouldn't bother myself with - like that guy on the bike riding past for the second time.

He's so focused on the lady with the bright Birken bag that he doesn't notice me.

He's face down on the concrete, his bag spilling it stolen contents all over, blood and teeth smeared wet and red and crunchy-white on the concrete.

I leave a stunned security guard from a nearby bank to deal with the aftermath, appetite piqued.

The cafe Steve no longer frequents is close, and their coffee isn't terrible, so I sit in a comfortable chair until my skin itches with the inactivity, _and_ the caffeine and the sugar I've consumed.

Steve's little waitress friend (who is thoroughly and exactly what she seems, a sweet woman whose likes include cat videos and 'dinner & a movie' dates) brings me a sandwich, whispering that everything's on the house for a friend.

Admittedly, I'm startled by her easy recognition. I hadn't realized I'd done anything around her to warrant any sort of attention.

* * *

I don't know how I've ended up on the top of the Brooklyn Bridge. I don't rightly know how I'll get down. I'm not so sure that it actually matters.

**Author's Note:**

> I just love fucking around with time, apparently. Also, I think this was supposed to be funny. 
> 
> Here's the funny/humorous mark. ->
> 
>  
> 
> /_  
> \ over yonder is where I landed.


End file.
